And I wonder why people think writers are weird

I’m working on a new middle grade novel, and my book has a secret.

Not that said book has shared it with me, yet. But I can tell there’s something missing, some thing I’ve not discovered yet; I can feel it lurking somewhere behind the words on the page. When I find it–whatever it is–pieces will fall into place, tensions will pull taut, the story will cohere.

But my book isn’t talking yet. It says we’re only just getting to know each other, maybe we should be friends first. Secrets aren’t for first dates, after all, or casual acquaintances. I need to listen, and wait, and be on the lookout for it.

Okay, so I know this probably isn’t how it really happens. I know that everything I write is written by me, that anything I add gets added because I work it out and decide to add it, not because it’s already there and I discover it.

But that’s not how it feels, when I’m writing. That’s not how I think about it.

My book’s holding out on me.

I wonder whether I can bribe it with chocolate.

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